


Permanent

by Captive9



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky whump, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Non-Consensual Tattooing, Slurs, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18988195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captive9/pseuds/Captive9
Summary: Rumlow wants to mark the Asset up in a way that will stick.





	Permanent

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow i couldn't possibly write anything more fucked up than my last htp fic  
> also me: *writes this*

Rumlow laughs, the first time he sees it.

“What’s the fuckin’ point? It’s not gonna last.”

Rollins grins. Rumlow always thinks that Rollins’ face wasn’t meant for grinning. It’s like seeing a rottweiler smile with a line of human teeth. “You’ll see.”

Rollins doesn’t use it until the Asset has been, ah, loosened up a little, so to speak. They’re putting him back in cryo, which means it could be months before they get him out again. So the STRIKE team has gotten the go-ahead to make use of that pretty face one last time, before it gets frozen.

And he _is_ pretty. Pretty when they started, when the Asset got down on its knees obediently at Rumlow’s command, gazed up at him with those clouded, doll-blue eyes, pretty pink lips forced wide open by the spider gag. And even prettier now, his cheeks all flushed with exertion, Rumlow’s come drying on his face. Sanders is fucking pathetic noises out of him every time he thrusts into his ass, and Rumlow’s cock is already starting to fill again, just watching.

Rollins has his turn after Sanders is done. Rumlow is a dick, he’s pretty self-aware of that, but Rollins is a sadistic motherfucker. Sanders comes inside the Asset and no sooner has he pulled out, Rollins is shoving right in with his giant fucking porno cock, making the asset whimper around the one in his mouth. That’s when Rollins brings it out.

The tattoo gun.

The guy who’s having his fun with the Asset’s mouth – Walker – stills a little, so the Asset goes from choking to just gagging. Rollins gets his dick wet first, steadying himself with one hand on the Asset’s hip. Sanders’ come dribbles out of its hole every time he fucks in. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is. But Rumlow has long stopped questioning his cock’s inclinations, where the Asset is concerned. Rumlow is as straight as every other guy in this room, but the Asset is the goddamn Bermuda Triangle of heterosexuality; leave your preferences at the door, because when it comes to Bucky Barnes or whoever this guy really is, it doesn’t matter.

A loud buzz fills the room as Rollins turns on the gun.

“You know how to use that thing?” Rumlow asks, eyeing it from a distance.

Rollins just scowls, and grinds into the Asset, forcing himself balls-deep. He braces his other hand on the Asset’s back, broad fingers digging into trembling muscle, sodden with sweat. The Asset is built to kill, but he’s all muscle, not a lick of fat on his body. When he’s stretched out and fucked-out like this, he doesn’t seem big. Every breath drags his ribcage ragged. Rumlow sees panic flicker through the whites of his eyes, at the sound of the gun. Rollins has been on the team longer than Rumlow. Clearly, he’s done this before.

Walker picks back up with the Asset’s mouth as Rollins presses the needle to the skin of his back. True to his word, he does know how to use it, although it comes out shaky, like a kid’s handwriting, all scratchy and weeping black and red. And— Rumlow gets it now. When Rollins is done with his artwork, he tosses the gun away, grips the Asset’s hips and _fucks_ him, fucks him viciously, takes him apart. And Rumlow’s gotta admit: Rollins pounding the Winter Soldier into a whimpering mess, with **COCKSLUT** tattooed into the curve of his back, is probably one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. Rumlow has to fuck him another two times after that, to get it out of his system.

 

 

Doesn’t last, of course. Like Rumlow said it wouldn’t. They have to let him heal up and wipe him before they stick him in the freezer. By morning, he’s lying in a pile of ink; the serum wrung it out of him. The lettering is red and already too faint to read, and by the time they put him under, it’s gone.

Rumlow gets it now. He almost wishes he hadn’t seen Rollins do it, because the whole incident has put an itch in his skin. The Asset is theirs; it’s _his_. It belongs to Hydra, and sometimes, for an hour or two or ten, it belongs to Rumlow. But the Asset is also a freakshow. Who knows how long it’ll live? How many handlers it’ll see?

No: Rumlow wants to put his mark on him, and he wants it to be permanent. He knows the Asset can scar. Less than a normal person, but he does. There’s a whisper of scar tissue on one of his thighs, front and back; the bullet must have gone right through him. And there’s all that swollen red flesh around the place where the metal goes into the socket of his shoulder. Because you can’t hack a man’s arm off and stick on _that_ thing in its place without leaving a mark.

Yeah. He can scar.

Rumlow’s always liked a challenge.

He calls dibs on the tattoo gun next time by swiping it from Rollins’ hand. He lets the other guys go first, because he’s feeling generous. Waits until the Asset is all glassy-eyed and sloppy. His head hangs down when he hears the buzz of the gun. Rumlow doesn’t go for the back, like Rollins did. He presses the sharp, vibrating needle right against the sensitive skin of his left cheek, and the Asset flinches. Rumlow drags the needle across the skin, pressing in _hard_. Three letters on the left cheek; two on the right.

Then Rumlow fucks him. It doesn’t even matter that he’s the sixth, seventh, maybe even eighth guy to stick his dick into this hole. He’s still so good that Rumlow sees white as he comes, grunting and spilling all over the Asset’s torn-up ass. He really is a mess, all coated in blood and come and ink. Rumlow has to wipe it off with the bottom of his shirt to see his handiwork again: crude black letters sliced into raw red skin.

And then Rumlow picks up the tattoo gun again. The Asset cries out – and it’s maybe the most human noise Rumlow has ever heard from him – when Rumlow digs the needle into the same spot as before, starting all over again. As many times as he needs. He’s going to make it stick. In ten or twenty or fifty years, when he’s long dead and the next handler is having their way with the Asset, they’re gonna look down and think _Brock Rumlow was here_.

 

 

Insight fails, and everything goes to hell.

Rogers subdues him, two years later, in Lagos. He gets Rumlow down on his knees, except the good Captain would never take advantage of the position; no, he’s far too  _good_. He's boring as horseshit, and Rollins is dead, along with the rest of the old STRIKE team, last Rumlow heard. Rumlow knows there's not long left for him. Just one thing left to do.

“He still got it?” he asks, his voice rasping, burning, like it always does since they dropped a building on his vocal cords.

The Captain frowns beneath his cowl. “What?”

“Has he still _got it_. You know what I mean. On his _ass_.”

Rogers jerks, shock and horror filling his eyes, and satisfaction curls deep in Rumlow's belly. Yeah. He's still got it, and Rogers has seen it. Rogers' precious Bucky has still got **WHORE** carved into his ass cheeks, over and over and over again, by Rumlow’s hand. It even outlasted Hydra.

Rumlow grins blood and broken teeth. "Yeah," he says. "That was me."

And he relishes the look on Rogers’ face as he pulls the string from the grenade.


End file.
